by Fritz Galt
Near the end of their monster pitcher of Budweiser, they decided to fly to Urumqi, the capital of Xinjiang Autonomous Region, the very next morning.
Chapter 22
Beijing was both noisy and quiet in the early hours of July 7th. There was the occasional honk, the squeal of brakes, one neighbor calling out to another. But as Brad, Earl, and Sullivan walked toward a distant taxi stand, sounds disappeared quickly in the deep blue sky and were separated by long periods of silence.
The vast emptiness felt to Brad like they were in Mongolia.
“So what do you have in mind for Urumqi?” he asked his friend.
“See, then you will,” Earl said mystically.
“Okay, YO-DAH.”
They were just entering a park with its gates flung open to the public. Inside, Brad found himself surrounded by dozens of modern-day Yodas.
There were old men doing tai chi under the trees, women performing breathing and bending exercises, oblivious to the spectacle their dumpy bodies made in their pajamas.
The threesome passed a group of sword dancers following their master, a guy that looked like he could lop someone’s head off with a single stroke.
The fan dancing reminded Brad of a school of fish, all swaying in tandem with music that played from a boom box.
The exercise equipment bolted to the ground was original, designed by engineers who had never entered a Nautilus fitness center before. It consisted of clever but physiologically dubious devices for swinging the arms and legs.
But it was the meditative art of tai chi that captured Brad’s attention. People seemed to be tapping into something within themselves and aligning that with larger forces. He could use a little guidance himself.
Okay, so the man taking furious whacks at the trunk of a tree with his bare hands was a bit much. But Brad had a demon or two of his own to exorcise.
It was the line of old men holding transistor radios and walking backward on their tiptoes precariously balanced on a ledge high above the lake that looked the most goofy. He couldn’t picture Richter doing that. Perhaps that was the one thing he and his stepfather had in common.
He pointed up in the air at a stack of eight chairs. A boy stood on his hands gripping the back of a chair that was tipped up on two legs on top of the others. “So this is a typical day in the park in China?”
“Cultural anthropology, my friend,” Earl said. “That’s where it’s at.”
As soon as the Boeing 737 started up its engines in Beijing, Brad found himself nodding off. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that extra liter of Bud.
Being in the company of travel companions and rocking gently aboard an airplane as it banked into a turn, he was lulled into a relaxed slumber. Hmm, perhaps May was right about flying.
Presently he found himself seated in the back of a two-seater F-16 knockoff. May was piloting, but Brad had to share his seat. An elderly man sat in a most undignified way upon his lap, a large canvas bag clutched in his fists. Brad couldn’t see the guy’s face, but he presumed it was May’s father, Dr. Yu.
They were in flight from someone. He and May were always in flight from someone. He thought he should be happy, as they had apparently rescued May’s dad, but he sensed something was wrong.
Easy, just relax and enjoy the ride.
May had the jet engine roaring. They bounced across the hard-packed earth to a take-off position. Just then an armed convoy converged on the runway. A few zinging sounds informed him that pistols and rifles were firing away at them.
How thick was the skin of those birds anyhow?
He tried to duck, but had no luck with the extra passenger in his way.
May took off, banked sharply over the airbase, and made a run at the hangars. Brad watched in horror as she let loose with a line of cannon fire and strafed several large storage tanks.
“What are you doing?” he shouted.
They grazed just past the ensuing ball of fire. The storage tanks had been a fuel depot.
He looked at the conflagration with a heady dose of admiration.
But another jet emerged through the flames and billowing black smoke. It was screaming down the runway in hot pursuit. Of course, who else could it be, but…
“Liang,” May said, her voice bitter and alarmed. The name had taken on a demonic, even phoenix-like, dimension.
God, he was so sick of that bastard. Why couldn’t he just leave them alone?
May lay on more afterburners, and Dr. Yu’s bald spot smashed into Brad’s forehead.
They were flying fast and hugged a rugged piece of terrain that was full of deep chasms and gigantic rivers. Occasionally, May lost her pursuer behind a mountain. But he returned again and again, each time making up the lost distance.
“Would you mind moving slightly to the left?” Brad asked the old man. “You’re cutting off my circulation.”
“I can’t,” he said. “There are many monks and too little porridge.”
“Well, at least get off my lap and scoot forward.”
“I need your knees so that I can rest my bag of bones.”
“Bones?” Brad said. What was the old guy doing with bones? Had he really found something?
“Yes, these should certainly please your stepfather once I verify the dates.”
“Would you two mind shutting up back there?” May shouted, sounding exactly like his stepfather, Richter. “I have enough distractions already.”
Man that was weird. Brad shook his head. Having May come across as his stepfather was worse than having Xenhet stuck in his left ear.
“But Brad is bothering me,” the old scientist said petulantly.
“Now listen up,” May shouted in her freaky voice. “Don’t make me stop this thing, ’cause if I have to come back there, there is going to be hell to pay.”
Brad found himself drifting off to another humiliating childhood memory, when…
“Now hold tight, boys,” the beautiful pilot said with her possessed voice box. “This is it.”
“What is it?” Brad winced as the scientist’s hips bored into his thighs.
At that moment, Liang’s jet launched an air-to-air missile.
May ascended quickly to avoid it. The rocket rose in response.
The rocket’s white trail curved as May attempted a roll to the left. She dropped chaff and flares together.
“Make sure your seatbelts are fastened.”
Then she tried another evasive maneuver. She summoned up all the strength of their engine and dove straight toward the ground. The sudden vertical orientation threw Brad against the scientist, who in turn leaned far over his bag.
Unable to move, Brad saw the fragment of a cranium roll out of the bag at his feet. Time came to a standstill as he focused with microscopic precision on the fossil. Its nose cavity was a mere three centimeters across, and the mandibular nerve canal opening had a grooved rim.
But the rocket wasn’t fooled by May’s change in course. It seemed undeterred in its deadly pursuit.
It screamed toward their canopy and exploded.
“Easy, Brad.” An altogether different voice entered the periphery of his consciousness. “You’re jerking around like you’re in an electric chair.”
It was Earl shaking him by the shoulder, trying to wake him up.
“We’re landing.”
Brad shot a look out the window. The large Boeing was cruising down toward a dry valley. He wasn’t plummeting toward earth in a fighter jet. There was no rocket. No old man. No bag of bones.
Dreams are your soul’s gift to your waking mind.
Some gift. Maybe he should avoid all further air travel.
He felt shaky, and his hands were clammy as he tried to rub the sleep and numbness from his face.
A male steward spoke in clipped English over the intercom. “Welcome to Urumqi. The temperature on the ground is 40 degrees Celsius.”
Brad calculated quickly. That came to 104 degrees Fahrenheit.
In the Muslim markets of Urum
qi, Brad felt like he was in a time/space warp. That morning, his flight had taken off from the center of modern Han China and landed four hours later at a steamy Middle Eastern bazaar.
The streets were buzzing with colorfully dressed natives of over forty ethnic groups, including the Uygur, Han, Hui, Kazak, Mongol, Kyrgyz and Xibe.
He jumped onto the curb just in time to avoid a motorcycle that gunned by carrying a family in flowing robes. He nearly knocked over a cart of melons, grapes and small, delicate pears.
Earl grabbed his arm to hold him steady, then turned to their latest contact in a long succession of scientists pointing them to May’s father. “I want you to meet Professor Nur of Xinjiang University’s Anthropology Department.”
Earl had come through again.
“Do you know where we can find Dr. Yu Zhaoguo?” Brad asked, and studied the weather-beaten old man with the long, thin hair.
“I haven’t seen him in over three years.”
Brad turned to Earl. “The trail seems to have grown a little cold, I’d say.”
“Just hold on a moment, big buddy. Let me talk to the guy.” He took Professor Nur down the street, where they became lost in conversation.
Brad and Sullivan found a clean spot on the curb and sat down to wait. Across the street, a man fried bread on an oil drum using a blowtorch. Huge balls of fire rose from the drum as the man worked his culinary magic.
Boys and bearded men wore white skullcaps, and women went about their business wrapped in headscarves.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” Brad said.
Sullivan stared at the street scene. “They’re all Chinese.”
That was it. They could have been in a busy market in Cairo or Morocco, but all the faces were oriental. It was both a liberating and chilling experience.
“I hope they don’t have a thing against Yanks,” Brad said. “’Cause I feel kinda vulnerable out here.”
Earl and Professor Nur had long since disappeared among the multitude down the long, straight street.
“Come on,” Sullivan said. “Let’s see the town.”
They walked past a gate with a golden crescent on it. It marked the entrance to a quiet, green courtyard. Some lame, elderly and poor leaned against the walls waiting for alms.
“My guess is we’re in a mosque,” Sullivan said.
“If Mao bought the Communist party line and thought that religion was the opiate of the people,” Brad said, “then why do the authorities allow active mosques like this?”
“Because religion is the opiate of the people,” Sullivan responded simply.
Brad looked at him with surprise. “I see your point.”
Ask him about your father.
“What?” Oh. He had to remember not to think out loud. Was it possible that Sullivan knew something?
Ask.
He turned to the CIA operative. “Say, old bean, in all your obvious research into my life did you ever run across anything on my biological father?”
Sullivan paused mid-step. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I did.”
“And that would be?”
“Well, you may be gratified, or horrified, to know that he’s still very much alive.”
Brad turned to face him squarely. “So why hasn’t the deadbeat ever tried to contact me?”
“Well, he’s been rather busy and has only recently discovered your whereabouts.”
“Still, why?”
Sullivan resumed walking. “When your mother left him…”
“Hold on.” Brad jogged to catch up. “He left her. He left us.”
“Actually, she split. She was fed up with his career, his long absences, and sorry excuses, not to mention the dangers he put his family through. When he returned from an assignment one day, the house was empty. She did a very good job of covering her tracks and that of her child.”
“That’s probably why we never hung out with any relatives. Too easy to trace. I just thought she hated her family, or that Richter drove them away.”
Brad let his gaze fall on a pudgy little boy in a padded red jacket. He was holding onto his father by the index finger as he waddled along.
“One day when I was ten,” Brad picked up the story, “I figured out that we were living under my stepfather’s name. I made her tell me the surname of my real father. She told me that it was ‘West,’ but she made me promise not to use it until I turned eighteen. Then she died on me.”
He paused to get over the moment. Sullivan slowed his pace to take in every word.
“Richter offered to adopt me, to legally give me his name. But by that time, I figured screw it, the name from a biological father I didn’t know was better than being associated with that bag of gas.”
An unexpected sense of excitement was encroaching on his thoughts. He looked at Sullivan and wanted to know more.
“So, my father was into danger, huh? What was he, an undercover cop or something?”
They had come to the center of the mosque’s courtyard where birds were chirping loudly.
“Wait a second,” Brad said. The birds in the trees had yellow breasts, just like the bird on the stamp. “I wonder if that’s our Jiang bird.”
“Could be.”
“But what a stupid clue to give May,” Brad thought aloud. “I mean, that bird isn’t native to a specific place that would help her pinpoint him. Xinjiang has got to be the biggest province in China.”
“It’s bigger than France,” Sullivan said.
“How could that possibly be a clue? I think we’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Sullivan didn’t look so troubled. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Just then his cell phone rang.
Sullivan plucked it out of his pocket. “Yeah?”
He listened for a full minute. During that time, Earl and Professor Nur entered at the far end of the mosque, still immersed in conversation.
A worried look came over Sullivan’s face. He thanked the other party and put the phone away.
“Well?” Brad didn’t like all the mystery surrounding the call, especially if it meant bad news that could involve May. “Are you going to tell me or what?”
Sullivan sealed his lips tightly.
“At least tell me who called.”
“Kind of a Jill of all trades,” Sullivan said cryptically.
“A woman. So that narrows the field.”
“One of our top agents. Someone who has protected and helped you more than once, I might add. You may as well know, in case you run into her, she’s not really as Red as you think.”
“Jade!” Brad practically shouted. “She works for you? I mean, us?” He motioned across the courtyard. “Skeeter, you’ve got to hear this.”
Earl ambled over. “Keep it down. This is a holy place.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Sullivan signaled for the two to follow him and headed toward an ancient, tile pavilion. “Let’s wait until Professor Nur is safely out of earshot.”
Once they were inside the structure, Earl said, “Did I hear you guys talking about my love doctor?”
Sullivan examined him carefully.
“I mean, our ‘professional acquaintance?’” Earl tried to recover himself. Then he turned to Sullivan, suspicious. “You mean, you know Jade, too? Hah, I knew it.”
Sullivan jogged down the far steps and started walking with long, powerful strides.
Earl struggled to keep up on his short, stumpy legs. “Hey, can you clue me in as to her general whereabouts now?”
Brad tried to prevent his friend from making a total fool of himself. “Skeeter, he’s not saying. Just give up.”
At last Professor Nur caught up with them. “You’re not enjoying this place?”
Brad looked around at the trees, the pagodas, the covered walkways and the buildings where men washed and prayed. “Uh, yeah.”
Sullivan stopped and turned to the professor and Earl. “Have you made any progress?”
“Yeah. Sure have,” Earl said. “I feel k
ind of silly dragging you to the doorstep of Afghanistan. I think I’ll let the professor explain.”
Professor Nur cleared his throat. “It appears that you may have overlooked a subtlety of the Chinese language. The Jiang bird that appears on the stamp indeed frequents this region, but it is also a symbol adopted to mean something quite different. The bird’s name is a Chinese pun. Jiang can mean either the bird, or the Long River.”
“A pun?” Brad was confused.
“That’s right,” Earl said. “The Chinese language is full of them.”
“Is there anything else about the Chinese language that you might care to tell us?”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
“Okay. I’m still not clear on the whole pun thing. What exactly is the Long River?”
Earl laughed. “Have you ever heard of the Yangtze? That’s a foreign term. In China, it’s called the Chang Jiang, meaning Long River.”
“Do you mean to tell me that the Yangtze isn’t even called ‘the Yangtze’ in China? How was I ever supposed to put these clues together if I didn’t even know something as basic as that?”
“Stop right there,” Sullivan said. “This must be connected to Three Gorges.”
“Three gorgeous women?” Earl asked.
The professor smiled. “The Three Gorges Dam is the largest hydroelectric project in the world. It’s being built across the Yangtze River and is due to begin operation today.”
Brad felt his head spinning.
“Tree Canyons. Three Gorges,” he blurted out. “Yes, my students mentioned something about that. But aren’t there any number of dam projects going on across the country?”
“Nothing like this,” Sullivan said. “Three Gorges is in a league of its own.”
Brad was still thinking about May’s father. “Would a significant anthropological discovery be enough to halt construction of something like that?”
Earl knitted his dark eyebrows. “The Chinese are crazy about preserving their historical primacy,” he said. “It’s a point of national pride. You can bet it would at least delay the dam’s opening, that is if it was something truly noteworthy.”
Sullivan looked vaguely disappointed. “The letter mentioned a dragon. If you put the Yangtze River together with that hint about chopping the head off a long-bodied creature, it seems to fit.”